


familiar faces and fields medals

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [61]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: 'yet', Galas, M/M, Post-Canon, Science Boyfriends, feat. Newt being an Adoring Lover, usage of language in its poetic form
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 10:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18798217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: Post-War means mandatory public appearances. Unfortunately, Hermann runs into an old acquaintance.





	familiar faces and fields medals

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "How about My ex just showed up with their new partner and I really don’t want them to win this breakup"

“Oh, dear,” Hermann says, paling considerably. He’s clutching his champagne flute, white-knuckled, and Newt knocks their shoulders together.

“ _What?_ ” he hisses, “Hermann, stop, you’re going to—”

 _Break the glass,_ he means to say, except, well, it’s already happened—the glass shatters, pieces falling to the floor, and Hermann lets out a strangled cry of pain. “—that,” he finishes lamely. “Oh, Hermann, here, lemme see it—oh, you’re bleeding!”

Hermann  _is_ bleeding—and quite profusely. He’s paling, actually, pretty badly—“We should get that checked,” he says firmly, “Hermann, come on.” Newt elevates the hand above Hermann’s heart. The crowd around them parts—probably the blood—letting them get to the bathrooms within minutes.

“What were you  _doing?_ ” Newt asks, as the frigidly cold water runs over Hermann’s hand, and Newt’s, where he’s holding the other’s under the faucet. The water is only a very light pink, now, instead of the deeper red it was when they got in.

Hermann refuses to meet his gaze. “I saw a…less-than-desired face,” he says. “And…I may have over-reacted. Slightly.”

“You  _think?_ ” Newt  asks. He sighs. “Okay, sorry. I shouldn’t be getting snappy about it. Do you…do you want to talk about it?”

Hermann bestows him with a half-smile, before it disappears. “Thank you, Newton,” he says. “I…well,” he starts, “you know that I attended boarding school at my father’s behest. For…a majority of my time there, I—well, I didn’t have many friends, for a variety of reason. But…during my last year, I—” he coughs, embarrassed.

Newt gives him a moment, turns the water off, and inspects his hand. “I think we got all the glass out,” he says, an offer of subject change, if Hermann wishes it. 

“I fancied a peer of mine,” Hermann continues, brushing it aside. “We were briefly involved, but it…didn’t turn out well.”

Newt gnaws on his lip, uncertain of how to reply, and settles on patting Hermann’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says, “which. Is like. Not really what you wanted to hear, probably, but. I mean it. I’m sorry, Hermann.”

Hermann offers a grimace. “Well, it’s in the past. I just…didn’t expect to see him here. As I said, it…didn’t end well. I’m fine, though. It’s just annoying that he probably thinks he “won” our breakup, what with the model hanging off his arm.”

“ _Competitive,_ ” Newt teases, before, with an air of finality, he says, “Well, fuck him.”

* * *

After they leave the restroom, Hermann’s hand no longer bleeding, the cut cleaned and wrapped with gauze—where Newt got the gauze from, Hermann’s not going to ask—he thinks little of the exchange.

Until.

Newt’s gone off in search of hors d’oeurves, and Hermann somehow gets dragged into a “conversation” on the uselessness of his work, thinly-veiled as a “debate”, including a plethora of insults to his person, featuring one Andrew Weston as the opponent.

Mostly, actually, it’s insults to his person.

“Really,” scoffs Andrew, “it figures that you became a physicist. You always  _were_  dead boring.”

Hermann’s just about to jump in with a scathing retort and put an end to the entire ridiculous affair, an arm slides around his waist. “Hermann,  _darling_ ,” Newt says, breath hot as he leans in to press a significantly-less-than chaste, open-mouthed kiss to Hermann’s neck.

“Newton!” Hermann squeaks, and Newt presses closer.

“Just go along with is,” he hisses, “we’re going to show that asshole who  _really_ won the breakup.” And then he pulls back, arm still around Hermann’s waist, and says, “Babe, who’s this?”

 _You madman_ , Hermann thinks. “An old associate of mine,” he says, aloud. “Andrew Weston.” He makes sure the name is dripping with distain. If Newt’s quirked lips are anything to go by, he succeeds. “Andrew, this is my—”

“Lover,” Newt says, brightly. “And Hermann is my beloved.”

“—fiancé,” Hermann finishes, pushing down the urge to sigh.

“He was awarded a Fields Medal just last year,” Newt says, “for the work he did during the War.”

 _Ah,_ Hermann thinks. So Newt  _did_ hear Andrew’s remarks.

Newt is looking smug; Andrew, on the other hand, looks like someone who’s only barely stopping themselves from being sick. “That’s—that’s nice,” Andrew says, strangled.“Con—congratulations, Hermann. I—I have something to attend to. Goodbye!”

As soon as Andrew makes his retreat, Newt rocks back on his feet, no longer draped over Hermann. Hermann, for his part, brushes invisible specks of dust off of his arm and glares in the direction that Andrew disappeared. “I, ah,” he says, slightly stiffly. “Thank you for the well-timed intervention.”

“No problem,” Newt beams. “And anyway, he looked like a jerk.”

“’Looked like a jerk’?” Hermann parrots, amused. “Do tell.”

“Yeah,” Newt says, “professional clothes, tall, face set in a permanent frown and likes to use big words. Like you. Except I actually  _like_ you. And he kept insulting your work, so,” he shrugs.

“ _You_  insult my work,” Hermann says drily.

“Yeah, but that’s  _me_ ,” Newt says, flippant, and leans forward, tugs on Hermann’s tie. “There we go. All fixed. You look nice, by the way.”

“I  _haven’t_ been awarded a Fields Medal,” Hermann says instead, trying to not flush at the compliment.

Newt grins at him. “ _Yet_.”


End file.
